


Requiem for a Brother

by wilhelms



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Brotherhood, Drug Abuse, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-20
Updated: 2016-03-20
Packaged: 2018-05-27 21:26:57
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6301033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wilhelms/pseuds/wilhelms
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has just finished his university studies and he doesn´t know what to do with all these ideas, with all these voices in his head. He just wants them to stop. He starts using drugs to relieve his pain and Mycroft is here to save the day, as always.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Requiem for a Brother

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for giving this a chance. I might continue writing the story or might not. This is my second story for Sherlock. I love family ships :) (just right after I love good old fashioned villains :P). 
> 
> Comments are welcome :). 
> 
> P.s. I´m not a native speaker but doing my best! :)

He was trying to kill his brain, the never ending voices. “Do something, do something, do something. How many bricks were used to build this house? What is the arithmetic mean of this table? What is the logarithm of the current population growth?”His brain would never stop torturing him with its new and new ideas, new problems, new plans. Everything had to answered, everything screamed in different forms of voices, faces, the tragic pictures of people covered in blood, children begging on the streets. He was not normal.   
He could not sleep, he could not eat anymore. Because caring was not an advantage. He knew that, Mycroft told him. Do not care, but how? How are you supposed to stop? Why are people so stupid? Can't they see the world is dying? Can't they hear the world screaming? If the taxes were set differently, how many people would benefit that? If the economy only profited all equally, but this world was different, so different from that one that was in his head.  
He had no idea what to do. The school was over, two honorary diplomas in his hands, he was praised for his knowledge, admired, invited to academics to be shown, but once he left they were glad. “Now, we can party.” He did not understand why people did not like him, while he was desperate trying to fit it, to be their perfect Cambridge boy. He was 22 and there was nothing he could do. He was not practical, he had no straight specialization despite studying chemistry. But what now? Never ending work in a lab? Was this interesting enough? No. He could not imagine himself in one place for the rest of his life. Family? He could not imagine himself in a relationship, with lovely two kids and pets.  
This world was too big for him and too small. The world that was all filled in his head and the world so big that there was no one like him, except for....Mycroft.  
It was odd but Mycroft was the only person who he thought about when he injected morpheme that day. A doze he hoped would take him away, to a simpler world, to a world of childish stories and Kipling´s adventures. To the world where imagination was not a scary feature but where imagination was a gift. Him and Mycroft could not be more different or more similar. He never felt particularly close to him, especially since Mycroft left home when Sherlock needed him the most. Teenage years were the worst and Mycroft was nowhere near him. It broke his heart and despite now being an adult, his heart was broken still. But Mycroft would always know what to do. How to occupy his mind, how to occupy Sherlock´s. But surely he doesn't care anymore. He has others to play with.  
He would like to believe that. He would like to justify his drug use because without a dramatic story, how can you justify the suicide road? When he looked at his life he had nothing to complain about. His parents were happily married, he had a brain of a genius, he could have a job in a minute. His looks were not the worse and with a little trying maybe he could find himself a nice intelligent lady. He knew that but there was something he hated to admit, he was devastated inside. All these years of unsolved problems, all these stories he wanted to finish, all these people he wanted to make understand. He just wished for peace. He wished for happy days and his heart was torn between fearing of constant solitude for the rest of his life and a constant presence of buzzing stupid people.   
Where are you, brother? Didn't you promise to always be there for me?


End file.
